Leveler Poetry Journal
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there are sunflowers

I used to talk to with grandma

and wished to grow up into;


there are beaches

covered in empty shells –

and gawky scratches in the sand between disintegrating mussels;


there are hands

colder than liquid nitrogen –

and spreading a liquid fragrance that takes the shape of brain grooves;


there are winter blooming trees

holding onto promises of parted hands

and sheltering forgotten bullets;


there are songs

I only listened to while chopping onions

and munching on certain memories;


and when gazing through train wheels –


dry winds disrobe hundreds of magnolias of their pinkish buds –

their unadorned shapes

and a weak silage of the perfume camellias wear before a storm

melt into prayers escaping from the church across the sea

as winter deepens.

Luisa-Evelina Stifii